


Mirror Mirror

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zählt
Genre: Crack Crossover, Gen, Other, Vengeance Demon(s), idek what this is, so that happened, whiny figure skating princess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1935690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Katja's Mirror Twin is a vengeance demon. And Katja used the W word. Oops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirror Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Just wrapping up some unfinished AWZ crossover crack for the [Fic or Die](http://spaghettitoes.insanejournal.com/50703.html) challenge. I'm not tagging this BtSV because it's really not a Buffy fic, but I did steal the vengeance demon mythology from BtSV. I assume no responsibility whatsoever for this :p

~~~

Her name – her true name, the one she got when D’Hoffryn chose her – is one of the things she lost. It happened during those in-between times, when bad things happened, time went swirly and elusive, and she broke the rules. Not just once; many times. It was just small things at first, things that no one would blink an eye at: Subtly changing a wish, deliberately picking the wrong guy, exacting vengeance where none had been called. The other girls merely frowned at her at first, or even marvelled at her powers. For most of them, the rules were hard and fast, and breaching them impossible. She could do things, though, even then: things that made mortals tremble and the demon lords frown at her thoughtfully, with a look that said, _This one is going places._

That was before, though. Before she started to lose time. Before breaking the rules became first an acquired taste, then an addiction; before she’d wake up in strange places, with the sound of screaming in her ear and the taste of skin and blood in her mouth. The word spread fast, and when the day came that she did the unthinkable – the day she turned vengeance on a woman wronged and let the man walk free – they were waiting for her. She dimly remembers standing in the high circle of Arashmaharr, with stern, veined faces gazing down on her. She remembers the verdict, the shackling of her powers, but she doesn’t remember losing her name. 

Perhaps that’s happened since. She wouldn’t be surprised if she’d turned another corner into some further realm of madness in the five years since her conviction. Who wouldn’t go mad in a place like this – a vengeance demon stripped of her essence and her purpose, even her very flesh, chained to a dull mortal’s mirror likeness? It’s no wonder her mind refuses to recall her name. What’s left to name? She can no longer even wear her true face.

The only name that’s left to her is the girl’s, the one she hears in the dreams they share, hissed in sharp staccato syllables by the sibilant ghost voice of a loveless mother. _Katja… Katja… Katja… Katja._ The demon hates the name, but it’s the only one that she can claim.

The idiot girl is standing in front of her now, staring at her reflection – chewing her lip in indecision, the way she always does. They’ve all stayed up late, watching movies and drinking beer, and Ben sat next to Katja, close enough that she could smell him, could feel the warmth of his body through his shirt, making her thrill with longing.

“So near, and yet so far,” the demon taunts from inside the mirror, crossing her arms. “Did you have fun, sitting there all stiff and boring?”

Katja’s freckled cheeks flush immediately, her lips pressing together. “Shut up,” she snaps, and the demon rolls her eyes. The girl is so easy to goad that it’s long since ceased to be any fun. There’s just no challenge left in her angry blushes and wounded doe expressions. Katja Bergmann is predictable to the core; she’s a thin veneer of abrasive sass over an shy, sulky child; awkward, pretend-brave and easily hurt. It’s like kicking a kitten. A kitten with mange.

Yet taunting is all that’s left to her, so she holds fast to that. For five years she’s tried to find the darkness in Katja; to tease out tendrils of ill will and weave them into the poisonous threads of vengeance. For a while, she was hoping that hers might be a temporary sentence; that if she could only entice Katja to make a wish, if she could inspire her to the greatest show of bloody revenge Arashmaharr had ever seen, then she might yet regain her position and her name. So she whispered from every mirror Katja faced, promising and cajoling and finally threatening, but Katja hasn’t budged. She doesn’t wish ill on people, not truly. Oh, she holds grudges. She snaps and stutters and blurts ridiculous accusations. But she doesn’t _hate_. She doesn’t envision terror and darkness, shredded guts and mangled hearts. She’s never wished for anything other than to please her worthless parents; no dark desires have shaped in her fresh, innocent and perfectly infuriating mind.

So the demon makes do with all that’s left to her, the only thing that even still distinguishes her from the wretched child: She mocks.

“Have you been thinking naughty thoughts?” she asks, then widens her eyes in fake surprise when Katja’s flush deepens. “Oh no, don’t tell me! Were you imagining him stretching and dropping his arm around your shoulders? Oh _my_!” she breathes. 

Katja balls her fists, her eyes glittering angrily. “Shut the hell up!”

The demon laughs at her. _“Shut the hell up!”_ she mocks in a high-pitched whine.

Katja abruptly turns away from her and stalks through the room, picking up scattered items of clothing and tossing them into drawers that she then slams angrily. The vengeance demon rolls her eyes.

“Come on, who are you fooling? You should be glad he doesn’t even notice you,” she sneers. “Even if he were interested, you’d have no idea what to do with him.”

Katja whirls back to the mirror, braid flying and eyes flashing. “Shut up!”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up!” the demon taunts. “Broken record much?” She pauses, glancing thoughtfully at a point past Katja. The girl hates it when she doesn’t move like a reflection should, and so the demon makes a point to do it all the time. She steeples her fingertips in exaggerated concentration. “One thing I have to give you, you’ve got taste. He is quite hunky. All those muscles under that pretty pale skin, and those lovely blue eyes. And nicely hung, remember?” A quick glance shows her Katja’s bright red face, telling her the girl remembers the shower incident quite well.

“I can read him, you know. He’s easy. Do you want me to tell you what you should do to him? The things he’d like?”

“No!” Katja sounds scandalised, and the demon laughs at her. “Come on! Someone like Ben isn’t into cuddling on the sofa and sweet kisses. He wants to be held down and ridden like a stallion, scratched bloody and told filthy things. …”

“Stop it!” There are tears and disgust in Katja’s voice, and suddenly her hand is clenched around her alarm clock, a heavy, retro piece with a round face and clawed iron feet.

The demon snickers with delight. It’s been a while since the girl has responded quite so nicely. “Or what, you’ll bore me to death like you would Ben? A guy like that wants a real woman – someone who can drive him mad, whip him and suck him and break him until he’s jelly at your feet. Not some little girl.”

The girl is crying now, clear streaks of angry wetness down her cheeks. “I hate you,” she whispers fervently. “I wish you weren’t me.”

She flings the alarm clock on the last word, with surprising force. The impact as it hits the mirror is deafening. It rends a tear into the very fabric of her world. Sensing the long-absent shifting of realities, the opening of a hairline crack between dimensions, the demon startles, shying back. Across the room, she sees Katja’s pale and worried face, for once an exact likeness of her own. Then her world shatters, and she with it. She hears herself screaming, spinning into fragments as she is flung out of the mirror in a sickening twist.

She wakes to an unpleasant throbbing in her head and the slow crawl of blood down her cheek. It takes her a moment to realise that in order to feel these things, she needs a body.

Putting her hands against the ground, she pushes herself up onto her knees, marvelling at the sheer physical sensation of muscles stretching and obeying. She looks down at her hands in wonder. They’re long-fingered and tanned, with short nails, not at all the elegant, pale digits she remembers. But they move when she wriggles them, and clench to her command.

“ _…no no no no no no no…”_

The anguished cry is no louder than a whisper, but echoed a hundredfold. Still on her knees – on Katja’s knees, but they’re hers now, sweet pain shooting up the left one as she shifts on broken glass – she looks around her. 

A hundred tiny faces stare up at her from a myriad of shards. The girl has shattered into slivers, some no larger than a fingernail. The faces gape at her open-mouthed, freckles stark against deathly pale skin. Her lips are still shaping almost-voiceless _no_ s.

The demon stands. Slowly, a bit shakily, she gains her legs. Katja’s legs. “No, mine now,” she murmurs, slowly running her hands up from her thighs to her hips and flanks. All these years in the mirror, she saw the body but she never felt it. It feels very different from her own body, which she remembers as slender and frail-boned. This one is long-limbed and strong-muscled, denser but not unpleasantly so. Her thighs are firm and long, tensing pleasingly to her command. Her back and shoulders are toned and strong. She fills her hands with her ample breasts and marvels at the weight and feel of them, heavy but taut. Brushing her thumbs across the nipples, she shivers with delight when they harden. 

Flesh. Real flesh. Hers to use.

A storm of outraged whispers at her feet. She looks down and starts to grin at the sight of hundreds of tiny Katjas, imprisoned in shattered glass.

“Didn’t I ever warn you not to make a wish to a vengeance demon, unless you were very, very sure what you were asking for?” She wipes the thin trail of blood of her cheek and licks it off her fingertip. Sweet. Of course. “Huh, no, I suppose I didn’t. Bad me.” Her smile widens, filling her cheeks. “All these years with this body, you haven’t done anything useful with it. I think it’s time you let me have a turn, don’t you?”

Katja shakes her head wildly, brings her hands up to batter uselessly at her prison. The demon sees no point in telling her there is no point. Let _her_ scream and rage against those invisible walls for a change.

“You’ve been such an idiot over that boy. Think he’s actually worth it?” She waits for Katja to pause in her tantrum and stare up at her in terror, then tilts her head musingly. “He’s pretty, but he’s useless. They all are. You know what I’ll do?” She leans down a bit closer to the shards, smiling at Katja’s horrified, tiny reflections. “I’ll go and find him now. I’ll tear off his clothes and I’ll fuck him. I’ll make him hard, I’ll make him scream, and I’ll make him bleed, and he’ll love every second of it. He’ll beg me to let him come. He’ll beg me to hurt him just a little more. And if he’s very, very good, perhaps I shall.”

She straightens up and pats at her gold-brown braid. It’s pulling at her scalp, much too constricting. Grimacing, she undoes it, breathing a sigh of relief when it comes undone. It’s lovely hair, silky and smooth, falling down past her hips. It must feel luscious slipping over bare skin. Or wrapped around someone’s neck.

“…me back my body, you bitch!” The scream at her feet is breathless and tiny. Disdainfully, the demon scuffs her foot against a pile of shards and sends them flying.

“I don’t think so. I think I’ll go find out how much use this body can get out of your brainless, pretty crush, and after that? D’you know, I think after that, I’ll go find Isabelle.”

Abrupt, flabbergasted silence from the shards. The demon runs her hands through her loose hair and laughs. “You perfect imbecile. She’s wanted you for months, and you never even entertained the notion. Well, let me tell you, I think she’ll be _much_ more fun than Ben. I think _she_ knows how to play.”

She peers down at the white-faced reflections once more. “And after we’re done playing,” she murmurs, enjoying how Katja has to strain to hear, “once she’s realised she doesn’t need Ben Steinkamp anymore – I think I’ll help her make a wish.”

She doesn’t wait to see Katja’s eyes fly wide in horror; doesn’t stay to hear her whisper-screamed pleas for mercy. She cloaks herself in her luxurious new hair and settles into the swing of her new hips as she walks out, leaving behind the trapped and wailing fragments on the floor. As she closes the door, it occurs to her that she has no idea what her face looks like, now that she’s finally in control. She might have to find a mirror. Later.


End file.
